


Lost in Translation

by M_Moonshade



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst, M/M, Yellow Helicopters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 11:14:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/M_Moonshade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you talk about angels, and you are one who has been secretly chosen by angels for special angelic purposes, you will start crying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost in Translation

 

_Vithia told Josie that Angels aren’t real, and that we cannot know such things about them. But this just made Vithia cry, because if you talk about Angels, and you are one who has been secretly chosen by Angels, for special Angelic purposes, you will start crying._

_Vithia has been sobbing quite a bit this morning, as a matter of fact._

_\-- “Yellow Helicopters”_

* * *

 

 

One of the things that Cecil loves most about his relationship with Carlos (aside from Carlos himself, and being with Carlos, and waking up beside Carlos every morning, and getting to play with his luxuriously soft and beautiful hair) is that the scientist never stops surprising him. There’s always something more to discover, and discovery brings its own kind of joy.

But not all discoveries are equally joyful.

For instance, he’s delighted to learn more about Carlos’ religion (some quirky little offshoot called ‘Catholic’, which Cecil finds absolutely adorable), and all the neat traditions and practices that go along with it. But then one day he comes home to find Carlos curled over a rosary, his face soaked with tears, rubbing the crystal beads so fervently his fingers are bloody.

Cecil tries to be respectful, he really does, but right then he couldn’t care less if this is some weird ‘Catholic’ thing. He drops to his knees and wraps his arms around Carlos, hushing and cooing and using every ounce of Persuasion in his voice to calm him down. Between “Shh, I’m here now” and “everything is going to be all right,” Cecil sneaks a question: “Can you tell me what’s wrong? Did something happen?”

A glass of brandy and several packets of tissues later, he finally gets an answer: “Angels aren’t real.”

He’s heard those words hundreds of times before, but the way they fall from Carlos’ lips sends a chill down his spine.

* * *

After the bandages come off his hands, Carlos starts wearing gloves. He tells Cecil they offer extra protection from the elements, that they're barely hot at all, really. He says the same about the turtleneck that’s become nearly as much a staple of his wardrobe as the lab coat. And not that Cecil doesn’t love seeing all that gorgeous hair free of its usual ponytail, but he loves seeing Carlos’ face more, and it’s so often hidden behind those lovely dark locks.

Cecil can't remember the last time they made love with the lights on, or without a blindfold over his eyes. Not that he minds (the sex has been getting progressively more adventurous and passionate, so what does he have to complain about?) but he misses watching the sweat bead on that lovely forehead. It seems like hardly a day goes by that Carlos doesn't wake up long before him, and though the breakfasts have been phenomenal, he misses laying in bed on lazy mornings and watching his beautiful scientist slowly drift awake.

* * *

He gets the news on a Tuesday afternoon, handed to him by a sweaty-palmed intern named Haru. Lary Leroy, out on the edge of town, was spotted ascending to heaven just minutes ago. There was a blaze of trumpets, an eerie black light, a strange elongation-- all just like the reports of what happened to Intern Vithya last year.

And just like with Vithya, witnesses reported him sobbing those same words: _Angels aren't real._

Memory clicks back into place, and Cecil grabs his phone and his keys off the recording booth's desk. Nothing else matters. He all but hurls the report into Intern Haru's hands, along with the barked instruction to present the news himself.

“But-- wait, I've never--”

“Figure it out.”

Normally Cecil wouldn't be so harsh-- interns' lives are hard enough as it is-- but his mind is racing and if his heart pounds any faster it's going to burst out of his chest.

His hands are shaking so hard he can't even try texting. That's probably for the best-- he wouldn't be able to handle waiting for a return text, anyway. It's bad enough waiting the three rings it takes Carlos to pick up the phone.

“Cecil? Aren't you in the middle of a show?” Carlos' oaky tones are crackled by a burst of static that hurts Cecil's ears, but he pulls the phone closer. He's here. Thank the Masters, he's here.

“The weather's on right now,” he says. “Where are you?”

“Is everything all right?” The static grows louder, accompanying the note of alarm in his voice.

A lifetime of survival and training conditions Cecil to say “no, it's fine,” but his voice catches on the lie. “No. No, it's not. I-- I need to see you.”

A long, buzzing silence. Finally: “I'll be at the house in a few minutes.”

* * *

Cecil staggers out of the car, barely remembering to grab his keys out of the ignition before he leaves it to roam. It'll come home when it gets hungry. Carlos' Coupe is already yawning in the garage. So he's back. He's home. He's--

The door opens, and Carlos steps out of the shadows to greet him, but darkness still seems to cling to him, like he's been badly photoshopped into the wrong picture.

“Cecil? What happened?”

And he wants to answer, but his voice is stuck in the back of his throat. He can only nod and acquiesce as Carlos curls an arm around him (did it always fit so easily over his shoulder?) and eases him inside.

It wasn't too long ago that he was the one pouring brandy for Carlos, but now he finds a tumbler of the stuff pressed gently into his hand.

“Drink,” Carlos murmurs. “It'll help.”

Cecil obeys, and it does: now the metaphorical hole in his chest is more of a spiked pit and less of a bottomless abyss.

“Larry Leroy vanished this afternoon,” he says, finally managing to force the words out. “They're saying he became an angel.”

Carlos opens his mouth to speak, but his teeth chatter. His eyes gloss with tears. He takes a shuddering breath, and Cecil puts a finger to his lips.

“You can't talk about them. I know.”

Carlos hangs his head and lays his forehead on Cecil's shoulder. “I'm sorry.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

A soft shake of his head dislodges some of Carlos' hair, and reveals the tip of his ear. It's darker than normal. Almost inky in its blackness. “I've tried everything, and I've only managed to slow it down. I'm sorry, Cecil.”

Cecil found him with the rosary weeks ago-- did he know then? Before? And sure, Cecil's caught him red-eyed since then, but there's always been an excuse-- allergies, or a side-effect of some lab experiment. Never anything serious. Never anything like this.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he whispers into Carlos' hair.

A grim chuckle. “It's inevitable. There was no point in upsetting you over something neither of us could change.”

“At least you wouldn't have had to wear these gloves.” It takes some effort to keep humor in his voice, but he'll nail it in place if he has to. He tugs at one of Carlos' hands. “Let me look at you.”

Carlos sits back, his head bowed, and gingerly pulls one glove from his hand. The fingers are longer than Cecil remembers, more slender, and such a deep black that they seem to suck the light from the rest of the room.

Cecil reaches tentatively toward him-- “Can I?”-- and when he gets Carlos' nod of assent he brings the bare hand to his lips and kisses it. Every pad, one by one, and then every knuckle. His skin is cool to the touch-- not cold, but lukewarm. It's something Cecil's blamed on the fan for the last few weeks, when he's noticed it at all. After all, there's usually plenty of friction to build up heat.

He tugs off the second glove with nothing short of reverence and kisses that hand with equal fervor, while the first cards gently through his hair.

All at once Carlos goes stiff, like he's been hit by an electric shock, and he curls flush around Cecil.

“What is it?” Cecil asks, on the verge of panic. “Did I hurt you? Is something wrong?”

“Nothing,” Carlos whispers. “I love you. _Dios mio_ , I love you.” But something in his eyes (deep and dark and flecked with starlight) tells Cecil what he needs to know: they don't have much time.

All at once Carlos is shucking off his lab coat, peeling away the turtleneck like it personally offended him. The skin underneath is mesmerizing: so dark it almost glows, blurry at the edges where it pulls at the light. Cecil can see the faint impression of bones-- they aren't a different color, really, but not quite as deep a black as the rest of him. In some patches (behind his left elbow, on his right shoulder blade) there are traces of familiar brown, like wisps of cloud under a moonless night sky.

“You're beautiful,” Cecil whispers, kissing every inch of him. “You will always be my beautiful, wonderful, perfect Carlos.”

Carlos makes no promises. Cecil isn't sure that he can. Who's to say Carlos will still love him when he's Erika? If he'll even remember him? Suddenly he has a million questions, and curses himself for not asking Old Woman Josie about them ages ago. There's so little he knows, and so little time. He's so unprepared.

Carlos' lips are growing cool against his mouth, and Cecil pulls away for just a second, just to look at him. His face is almost entirely obsidian; his eyes are like circles of void against moonlight. Somehow he's been holding this back for last, preserving the illusion until he couldn't hide it anymore. He is completely alien now, but still so very much Carlos.

They slide against each other, desert heat against midnight chill, and the touch is all the sweeter for the contrast. They cling and grind and whisper words like living tattoos into each other’s skin, each imbued with the unspoken hope that the words will stay long after their speakers are gone. They can feel each second ticking by, one by one, another moment they’ll never get back.

“Cecil--” Carlos voice is strange and unearthly, but it still makes Cecil’s heart ache to hear it form his name. “Cecil, if I don’t come back--”

“Don’t.” Cecil silences him with the frantic press of lips. “Carlos-- my beautiful Carlos-- I can believe that people built a giant missile and rode it to the moon,” he whispers desperately. “I can believe in mountains. I can believe in a hundred thousand impossible things, but _don't_ \--” His voice breaks. “Don't ask me to believe you won't come back to me.”  He buries his head in Carlos’ shoulder, and the scientist-- still the scientist-- holds him in silence for a precious few moments.

“All right,” he says with a voice like the night wind. “Until I come back, then.” He pulls back, tilts Cecil’s face up to look him in the starry eyes. “I want you to be happy. I want you to go bowling with Josie, and to cuddle with Khoshekh and his kittens, and to post plenty of adorable videos on Facebook, so you can show them to me when I get back. I want you to take care of yourself, so I won’t have to worry for you. And I want you to remember that you’re the best part of me. You always were.”

Cecil shakes his head. “No. Carlos, you’re perfect--”

“Nobody’s perfect,” Carlos whispers into his hair. “They become perfect when you accept them for who they are. You just happened to do that the first time you saw me.”

One last kiss-- not desperate, but soft. Gentle. _Good-bye._ \-- and Carlos is pulled away from him. He is entirely changed, his hair floating around him as though he’s underwater, stretching taller as he’s drawn skyward.

The ceiling doesn’t stop his ascent. Cecil never expected it to.

The only sound is the ringing of trumpets, at once mournful and triumphant.

And then silence.

Cecil gathers Carlos’ discarded clothes. Folds them neatly and sets them on the coffee table. Only the lab coat he keeps separate. He presses it to his face, inhales the scent of lavender chewing gum, and sinks slowly to his knees.

* * *

 

He doesn’t drink to forget-- he doesn’t _want_ to forget-- but for chunks of time he can push the grief to the back of his mind and enjoy the moment. Every morning, at eleven o’clock by the only true time piece in Night Vale, Cecil feeds Khoshekh, and snuggles him tight against his chest. After he finishes his nightly broadcast and the requisite paperwork, he trawls Youtube for new videos to post on Facebook. On Thursday nights he goes bowling. He and Josie don’t talk about her houseguests-- it’s been months now, but the wound is still too raw to go poking at just yet. Maybe later, when it’s scabbed over. Maybe later, when it doesn’t hurt so much.

Maybe later.

More and more he can think of the happy moments. Their silly dates, the near-death experiences, the brazen texts, the long evenings timing the sunset and the impromptu celebrations on those few nights Carlos deemed the sun had set on time. The memories make his chest ache so badly he wants to pull his heart out and check to make sure it’s still working properly, but they also make him feel warm, and happy, and loved.

He was-- _is_ \-- loved.

* * *

The porch light flickers. Once. Twice.

Goes out.

Cecil wouldn’t care-- between the street lamp and the neighbor’s lights, he’s fine-- but it’s a beautiful night. The sky is dark, the stars are out, the air is brisk and tastes like fall. And so he grabs a ladder and a stray light bulb and steps outside.

His body reacts before he understands, but his first moment of awareness is a simple one: the light bulb is taken gently out of his hand. A sound of metal sliding against metal, and then the porch is illuminated once more.

His face is hot. Tears pour down his face in uncontrolled streams. But that’s how he’d react even if the creature before him wasn’t an angel.

It’s ten feet tall, irridescent in its darkness, and when it speaks, its voice fills every atom of his body:

**Hello, Cecil. I’m here for personal reasons.**

**Author's Note:**

> About the title:  
> In Christianity, Translation is the term for moving a holy object from one place to another.  
> In my faith specifically, the term refers to a living person being made immortal and taken directly to heaven without having died. 
> 
> About the angels:  
> The process was very slow compared to what was shown in "Yellow Helicopters," but I kept the details as close to Intern Vithya's transformation as possible. Larry Leroy also showed signs of having been chosen by the angels in the episode.


End file.
